The last time I saw him, he was standing before a mirror, post-shower, as his hair dried and curled about his head.

A look of wonder spread across his face. His hair wasn't curly. Never had been. But this, with the lamp down low behind him; this was like a halo.

The still air itself took on a presence. He thought of Renaissance oils, where light danced through the saints, and he wondered.

He was fearless, calm, and free. Endlessly alive, he breathed only from the present. He could taste the future.

Deep in the night, an arm moving across his body would wake him; thrill him; complete him.

He was me, once upon, but he left. And he searched. But he only looked behind him.

Until he learned. And now he returns. Now he knows that he can not change the past; not history, nor the truth.

So he has changed himself. And not for the last time.

If you understand everything, some things are just as they are. If you understand nothing, things are still just as they are.